


(still) my heart beats so slow

by Tinwoman



Series: Blackout Approaching [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Spoilers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6105931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinwoman/pseuds/Tinwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a moment, hardly even there, when Deacon sees MacCready’s breath hitch and Fixer holding on to him just a little bit too long and tight, and right before she releases him with a playful shove, her thumb slides across the crease of MacCready's elbow in a tiny, barely-there caress.</p><p><em>Huh</em>, Deacon thinks. <em>That’s new.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.

The first time Deacon notices it, it’s like this: there’s five of them sitting around the communal cookfire in Sanctuary that night, watching the last, lingering light draining from the sky. In the distance, Preston’s silhouette is visible against the horizon as he patrols the perimeter, musket drawn and resting against his shoulder. 

Mama Murphy and Piper are talking, of all things, about the old zodiac star signs crap that people used to obsess about pre-war, trying to piece together the shapes in the sky. He’s surprised -- he didn’t have Piper pegged as superstitious, but he knows she likes stories, all kinds of stories, and he wonders if maybe they feel like ancient voices to her. What he _does_ know is that Mama Murphy’s knowledge of these things is mostly Jet-fueled hallucinations, but he’s never been one to stop a good fiction.

Deacon’s only half-listening, participating in the conversation in that zoned-out, reflexive way he does when scouting a mark. Talking’s the easiest thing in the world most of the time; most anyone wants is their own self reflected back at them, agreeing with them, smiling and telling them ‘Yep’ and ‘You got it’. Deacon’s long been able to keep one eye and ear trained carefully across the room, and right now he wants to keep an eye on whatever the hell is going on with MacCready and Fixer.

They’re turned slightly toward each other, and she’s telling him the plot of some prewar movie. His eyebrows are raised in disbelief, and that smartass smirk is tugging at his lips, but he’s leaning towards her slightly and his gaze is rapt. Fixer’s grinning and doing a few voices for the different characters, and for a moment she looks up at him and catches Deacon’s eye across the fire and does that thing, that shadow-wink thing he loves, and he can’t help but wink back at her over the tops of his shades. _Yeah yeah, I’ve got you, partner._

MacCready snorts at the latest twist in the story, Fixer laughing and saying something about the thrills of being an international man of mystery, and when MacCready mimes a body check at her ribs her hand whips out lightning-quick and grabs his bicep right above his elbow, her eyebrow arched in mock warning. There’s a moment, hardly even there, when Deacon sees MacCready’s breath hitch and Fixer holding on just a little bit too long and tight, and right before she releases him with a playful shove, her thumb slides across the crease of his elbow in a tiny, barely-there caress.

 _Huh_ , Deacon thinks. _That’s new._

The fire cracks, and MacCready jerks like he’s been burned by the sound alone, and glances over at the rest of them, looking flustered. Doesn’t stop a tiny, surprised smile from dancing across his face as he resettles in his chair and stretches his legs out closer to the flames, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on his stomach. Fixer’s carefully avoiding everyone’s gaze, tilting her slightly flushed face up to the stars with a yawn he’s certain is entirely manufactured.

Later, as he’s walking the border of Sanctuary during his own watch, he thinks about all of them together like this. Preston, a do-gooder and probably the only living angel Deacon’ll ever meet. MacCready, the ex-Gunner who certainly hasn’t told Fixer the gory details of what he did when he was one of them. Piper, a freakin _reporter_ who he kinda likes despite that, for her quick wit and tender heart.

And Fixer, whose primary strength isn’t in being the toughest, the fastest, the most charming, or the strongest, but in analysing each of them and placing them in a situation where they can do the most good. _Or the most damage._ She collects friends like most people collect cigarettes, and while he doesn’t doubt her genuine affection, he knows she needs them to get what she wants. 

When winning is important, Fixer wins. Simple as that.

He doesn’t begrudge her her practicality, as terrifying as it can sometimes be. Deacon thinks it’s a pre-war thing -- she plans for the future, she plays the long game, and she gets people where she needs them to be.

Deacon wonders where she’ll want him in the long run. And after tonight’s little display, he’s starting to wonder where she’ll want MacCready, too.

 

II.

“So, you’re still running with that merc, huh?”

She glances up at him from her crossed-legged position on the floor of HQ, a private grin flashing across her face “Mercenaries, synths, and spies, oh my!”

Deacon snorts, but doesn’t respond.

With a huff, Fixer continues “I _am_ a merc, Deacon. Just one with fancier titles and better friends.” She turns back to the map she’s marking up, having eschewed the chair for a patch of ground next to the wall, hunching over the paper on her lap and making notes in the margins

“There’s mercenaries and there’s _mercenaries_ , partner,” he says, leaning back in his chair at the tiny desk, balancing on the back two legs. Not even a flicker of a glance toward MacCready talking shop with Glory on the other side of the room. Deacon’s tone is light, but he’s watching her closely. “Mac over there is the latter.” 

She doesn’t look up again, but her fingers tighten on her pencil, and he can see the way her jaw clenches slightly before relaxing. _Good. You’re getting better at that._

“I’m not getting into a pissing contest with you about Mac. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his. ” she says shortly, with another glance that clearly says ‘back the hell off’. “And I don’t particularly care if you like him, as long as you can work with him.”

“Look, I like the guy just fine, but he’s a _Gunner._ ” It’s true, actually. Most of the time he kinda likes MacCready. For trying so hard to be a good Dad, a good partner for Fixer. For trying so damn hard to be _better_. But that’s not really the point here. 

“He knew exactly what those assholes were like. Even if he’s left them, do you know what he had to do to even _join_? Do you know what goes on in those camps, Fixer?” His easy smile never falters, and he knows it’s unfair to feed her this shit via MacCready, but he can’t help it. It’s a test, even more than she realizes. He’s a killer. He’s a bigot. He’s a piece of shit, lying asshole who doesn’t deserve her friendship, her trust. 

“We’ve all done terrible things to survive out here. ” she says calmly, putting her work down at last and facing him fully. “If I started listing every ‘unforgivable’ thing that even just _you and I_ have done, we’d be here all day. Mac’s no different from us.”

He rolls his eyes and smiles and knows that Fixer can see right through it. “Look, all I’m saying is, you don’t know everything about him.”

“What, and you do?” She still looks loose and calm, but her voice is getting tighter.

His smile twists into that arrogant smirk he knows she hates. “It’s my job to know things, hotshot, even about your little buddy Mac over there.” _Even about you,_ he thinks with a sharp, guilty twinge. “Things people don’t want me to know. Things you should know, if you’re gonna be pairing up with this guy.”

Her head cracks up, and a blush she can’t control stains her cheeks. “Pairing up?! Excuse me?” she whispers harshly, shocked and a little embarrassed that he saw right through that little facade. 

Deacon shrugs luxuriously, still balancing on the back two legs of his chair. “Just saying, Fix. You need to know who you’re getting...involved with. On a purely professional level, of course.” He lets a mocking edge creep into his tone.

“Stop it. I am not having this conversation, Deacon. This has nothing to do with you. You wanna talk to me about something that involves you? Let me know.” she snaps, her eyebrows drawing together. “I trust him. End of story.” _And I trust you, end of story,_ he hears, or he hopes he hears, and he can’t help the warm flush that spreads out from his chest despite the dangerous glint in her eye.

_Soon. I’ll tell you soon, and then I can stop needling you. I promise._

“Okay, okay. I got the message,” he says, not wanting to truly piss her off. “Any friend of yours is a semi-trusted professional acquaintance of mine.”

Fixer’s lips tighten again, but she nods brusquely and starts to turn back to her work.

“And hey, if it makes you feel any better?” he says, tilting forward til the front legs of his chair thunk down on the floor. “I already gave him the same lecture about you. A wicked Vaultie, cold, calculating, who knows what that cryo-freeze did to her brain? Her heart??” He grabs his chest dramatically, pulling a scandalized look.

That startles a chuckle out of her, and her expression settles back into wary amusement.

“Well, as long as you’re an equal opportunity asshole, I guess I can live with it.”

Deacon stands, stretching his arms above his head then offering her a hand to help her up. “Have I ever claimed to be anything else, pal?” She rolls her eyes but accepts his hand, and lets out a little yelp when he grins and pulls her up so fast and hard that she’s airborne half a second.

MacCready looks over at that, frowning slightly, and Deacon can’t help but stretch the moment out. Just to fuck with him a little.

Deacon bends over her hand in a mock bow, squeezes gently, _sorry for being such a paranoid ass,_ and releases her. When he sees her eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth, he knows she’s on to him. 

He waggles his eyebrows at her at the last second before she turns away. _What? I’m helping!_

Her voice, when she calls over to MacCready, is clear and steady. No trace of any tension, just warm good humor and a sarcastic whipcrack that he’s added to his Fixer Catalogue of Voices as…‘flirty’.

 

III.

Now that Fixer’s playing double agent with the Institute, Deacon sees her less often, and when he does she’s pent up and closed off in a way she’s never been before. He has no idea what goes on when she’s down in the belly of the beast - it’s safer not to know, though if she wanted to tell him...but she doesn’t, and that’s fine. It’s _fine._ But the damn near permanent grim set of her jaw is making him worry.

Also making him worry? Her new habit of heading straight from an Institute mission to Hancock’s with Cait in tow, ready to dive into a multi-day bender.

Deacon knows she’s there now, but he has zero interest in joining her, even if she wanted him to. Which she doesn’t. She’ll be safe with Hancock and Cait; Lord knows those two wouldn’t let anyone between them and Fixer. _Almost feel bad for anyone who’d try._

He tries not to judge her, he does. But he hates chems, and hates that she apparently likes them. Needs them. 

_Fuck, what are we asking her to do if she needs to get so high afterward she doesn’t come down for two whole days?_

But that’s not what he’s thinking about right now. Right now, he’s keeping an eye on one very pissed-off ex-mercenary, because honestly he’s a little concerned that MacCready is even closer to the edge than Fixer, and the last thing any of them needs right now is a fistfight or an arrest. And, if he’s being totally honest with himself, he’s...curious. About MacCready, and about what Fixer sees in him. It never hurts to know who your partner is getting involved with, right?

Deacon finds him, unsurprisingly, at the bar, radiating “fuck off” vibes in a way that only someone who ran with the most vicious gang in the Commonwealth can do.

MacCready looks...dangerous, with his rifle strapped across his back and cap drawn low over his face, sleeves rolled up to show off his admittedly impressive forearms. Bullets in his cap, across his thigh, all in easy reach, his grip tight around a beer. It’s so different from how Deacon normally sees him that he’s momentarily taken aback. 

It’s easy to forget, with his mouthy remarks and eye rolls, that he’s got perfect aim and endless patience and calloused hands that curl around a gun with a lover’s touch. An easy smile and some rough charm, and then suddenly his eyes go blank and focused and he’s got you right in his crosshairs and you never even _saw_ the thing that killed you. _That sort of cover’d be damn useful, if he ever learned to control it,_ Deacon thinks ruefully. 

But Mac isn’t in control right now. Tense, with a scowl that twists his pretty-boy features into something ugly, and practically begging for someone to pick a fight. Anyone with any sense is giving him a wide berth and avoiding his gaze. 

So, naturally, Deacon plunks himself down at his table and gives the brim of his cap a firm downward tap. 

“Hey buddy. Why the long face?”

MacCready head snaps up and he _snarls,_ literally baring his teeth and growling from someplace deep in his chest, for a wild second Deacon thinks MacCready might just attack him, Fixer and Sanctuary and the whole past year be damned. 

Deacon’s not looking for a fight, though, and he throws his hands up in surrender before Mac can react any more violently.

“Hey, whoa, don’t shoot! Just looking to grab a drink with an old friend,” he says, winking and hoping he picked the right way to play this.

A beat, and then the MacCready collapses like a deflating kickball, slumping forward and rubbing his face hard with his free hand. 

“Fine, whatever man. Pull up a chair,” he says, looking pointedly at the chair Deacon was already occupying. Deacon smiles disarmingly and shrugs, and is gratified to see a reluctant smirk from MacCready in return. 

“So,” Deacon begins.

“So,” MacCready deadpans.

“Look, I don’t like it either,” Deacon says, putting his elbows on the table and scooting closer to MacCready. “It’s a fine line, and bringing Hancock and Cait with her…I can’t decide if that’s better or worse, honestly.”

MacCready grunts in agreement, and Deacon peers closer at him from behind his shades, noting the shadows under his eyes and his fingernails that looked bitten down to the quick. _Jesus Fixer, can’t you see how bad this is messing him up?_ “Actually Mac, I didn’t think you cared about chems, or about her using.”

MacCready clenches his jaw for a minute then relaxes, and for once Deacon can’t read his expression. “I don’t, most of the time. For fun, or to relax. But this? This is like...I don’t know. She’s hiding from me. From whatever happens to her in that fuc-” a bare shake of his head “freaking place. From you too, apparently,” he raised his beer to Deacon in a mock toast, and Deacon manages an awkward half-salute in return, and MacCready’s mouth stretches into something resembling a smile. _Better._

MacCready sighs again, and Deacon can _feel_ his distress like a physical ache and then makes a snap decision.

“So, you wanna get drop-dead, blindingly drunk?”

MacCready gives a short, choked laugh at that, and Deacon studiedly ignores the twinge of pleasure in his chest at the sound, grinning back at him.

“God, I thought you’d never ask,” MacCready replies, flagging down bartender and signaling for another round. “You’re already behind though, so try and catch up, Mr…Mystery...Man.”

Deacon raises his eyebrow, “Mr. Mystery Man,” he says flatly. “That’s the best you’ve got.”

MacCready shrugs almost cheerfully, and when the drinks come he hands them both to Deacon. “Hey, you’re the smooth talker here, buddy. I’m just a hired gun.”

They drink, and talk, and as the sun starts to set it finally clicks into place for Deacon. Being with MacCready means family, means a life, a future. He gets it, and even feels the pull toward it, sitting here with him. Sees a flash of a nearly impossible future flitting through his fingers. The way Mac talks about Fixer, with affection and heat and something that borders on reverence...it’s good, Deacon thinks. It’s better than good, even.

And all of it, the fighting, finding the cure for his kid, trying to will himself into a better, more perfect person -- it was for her, to be the person she clearly believed he was. A slow motion love letter to Fixer that MacCready never even noticed he was writing.

 

IV.

He could easily blame this on Railroad intelligence, Deacon thinks. Why the hell would they send him to Goodneighbor on a recon mission if Fixer was already here. Even if she’s not here officially for the Railroad, they have enough contacts to at least notify Des that one of her best agents is making the rounds and can spare him the travel and the hassle and keep from from doing _this._

“This” being, watching from a doorstep with painful, shameful interest as Fixer, for once not armored up to the teeth but looking damn nice in a t-shirt and jeans, laughs and sways and clutches at MacCready as the two of them meander back to the Hotel Rex, clearly long overdue for some alone time.

 _Just an HQ mistake,_ he thinks. _It’s just a coincidence that I’m here, and I’m going to leave any second now._ Deacon, after all, had to make sure they didn’t get mugged, or attacked. Or, uh, tripped, or something. Definitely just a friendly gesture between partners. Nothing to get worked up over.

None of that fully explains why he’s following and skulking in the shadows instead of letting them know he’s here, and then before he can work out if he even wants to do that, he’s seeing a tipsy Fixer lead a mostly sober, grinning MacCready into an alleyway with a wicked smile on her face. And fuck him, but his dick is suddenly standing at _attention_ , harder than he’s been in a long time at just the thought of what they’re about to do. He wants to watch them together, to see what he’s been denying himself.

_Just for a moment. Just a little bit._

It’s not just the sex, he thinks as he leans into the crumbling corner of a building, hidden by the dark overhang, it’s the way they are together. What she’s like when she’s alone with him. What he’s like when there’s no one around but her. _It’s okay - they’ll never know._

Fixer reaches out and hooks her clever little fingers in MacCready’s belt buckle and pulls him closer, laughing and walking backwards and dragging him along til her back hits a brick wall. She leans up to kiss him, one hand still wrapped around his belt buckle and the other cupping the back of his head, fingernails scratching hard enough to make him shiver.

Breaking away from this kiss, MacCready cants his hips closer to Fixer, moving against her slowly. “You’re trouble, you know that?” with that same smartass grin and cocked eyebrow and eyes that shone with _love love love love._

 _Trouble’s my middle name_ , Deacon thinks, at the exact second that Fixer breathes the same words out against MacCready’s mouth, and Deacon shudders and swallows convulsively and thinks that he needs an exit strategy here before things go any farther. He had his little peek, and now it’s time to go.

But Fixer presses her hand hard against the bulge in MacCready’s pants, and Deacon can see MacCready bite back a curse and lean into the caress, one arm coming up to brace himself against the wall next to her head. She widens her stance a bit and urges him into the vee of her legs, arching her back.

“Jesus, baby,” MacCready groans into her neck “God, I want you so bad.” He drags her hand away from his crotch, and muffles her sound of protest with another searing kiss.

Deacon holds his breath as he sees MacCready’s hand fumble with the buttons of her jeans, then slide one hand down until it disappears between Fixer’s legs. _Fuck. Fuck. Ohhhh, fuck._

Fixer moans low in her throat and bucks against MacCready’s hand, and in the glow of the neon lights Deacon sees MacCready’s forearm flex, sees the subtle play of muscles in his wrist as he… as he...

 _Christ, this is getting out of control,_ Deacon thinks through gritted teeth, wrenching his gaze away from the two of them, trying to keep his imagination from spiraling into overdrive, from picturing Fixer’s pretty mouth panting against his own lips, his neck, his cock. From imagining MacCready grinding up against him, frantic with need. From wanting to see MacCready hoist Fixer higher in his arms and just fuck her _right now_ against the wall.

“You like that, darlin’? You want more?” MacCready whispers, smug and aroused and more than a little desperate, and for a moment Deacon’s heart twists hard in his chest because yeah, he gets that. Needing to hear it. 

“Please, oh please, baby”, Fixer gasps, and Deacon can’t stop himself from glancing back at them, Fixer’s head thrown back and eyes glittering in the dark, practically high on her lover’s touch, with MacCready working her closer and closer to orgasm as he dips his head down to bite at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

 _Enough, enough._ Deacon needs to get the hell out of here now before he hates himself anymore than he already does for watching this. For trying to crawl into their lives sideways and shadowed like a coward, risking nothing but getting everything. For rubbing the heel of his hand roughly against his straining erection and clenching his jaw tight against whatever traitorous sounds are building in his throat.

For helplessly cataloguing the exact ways Fixer sounds, what gets her off, what makes her shiver and pant. For making a mental note of just how badly MacCready just wants to please her, how hot it gets him to hear someone say ‘Yes, good, more’. 

_You never know,_ says a tiny voice in the back of his mind, the voice he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries. Always looking for an angle, for a way in, for the key that unlocks every person he’s ever met; the tiny voice that makes him the best goddamn spy the Railroad ever had and the worst fucking friend, because this is _beyond_ a violation, against Fixer and MacCready both. _You never know._

“Christ, you feel so good, Mac. I...It’s too...I’m….” Even in the dim light Deacon can see her tremble and shake. _Fuck, she’s so close..._

And Deacon doesn’t look away as she comes in MacCready’s arms with a sharp cry, her knees buckling slightly. MacCready catches her before she falls and she leans into him, panting as she shivers through the aftershocks.

 

 

V.

Mostly it’s nice just to be with her, nicer than he ever thought possible, even standing on that roof and watching the entire CIT get bombed into oblivion. They made it, most of them, and after Des and Tom and everyone else has started the long trek home he’s still up here with her. He can’t leave her, not yet. 

Before they did this, well, “suicide mission" isn't the cheeriest turn of phrase, but before they pulled off the ballsiest mission he’s ever been apart of, he made sure she knew the truth. 

He told her...not _everything,_ but most of it. The lynching. Barbara. The dark, black pit that threatens to swallow him whole, the tides that keep pulling him farther and farther away from the shore. Enough that her eyes went soft, and she reached out to slide his sunglasses up and there was a perfect, crystalline moment between them, barely glimpsed before it was over. He could never give her what she wanted, not really. She knew that as well as he did.

But he’s reminded of that time now, on the rooftop at the end of an era. The end of a world, second time for her. She turns to him, looking battered to hell and back, and more hurt and homesick than he’s ever seen her. She’ll never, ever be home again, and not even blowing up the bad guys could change that. 

She reaches out to hold his face between her hands, and he bites his tongue to keep from saying some stupid quip. She runs her thumbs across his upper cheeks, right below his eyes, looking at him like… Hell. Like he was something wonderful. Like she finally understood something about him, maybe even better than he did. 

“You know you’re always welcome anywhere I am, partner,” she says, looking so solemn it just about breaks his heart. 

_Shit. She should be happy right now, or at least relieved. Not thinking about my pathetic self._ So Deacon does what he does best -- raises and eyebrow and tries to get her to crack a smile “Anywhere, huh? Well, make sure you give Mac the heads up and I can think of the perfect place, sugar.”

It works, she smiles a little, but she’s so tired and sad and all of a sudden he wants to grab her and squeeze so hard he never has to let go. _You’re all I’ve got, and you’re perfect,_ but the words are stuck in his throat. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t...

She’s trying to play along; always game, his Fixer. She punches him lightly in the shoulder, but instead of dropping her hand she curls it around the lapel of his jacket and rests her face against his shoulder. He brings his arm up around her automatically and before he realizes what’s happening he’s cradling her her against him.

He feels her warm, soft cheek against his neck, and he takes a ragged breath and lets it out slowly, bringing his other arm up to rub slow circles in her back. His breath catches in his throat and he feels the sudden, shocking weight of unshed tears behind his eyes when she turns fully against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him.

Just this once, Deacon allows himself to hold someone he loves. Just for a moment. Just a little bit.


	2. Chapter 2

I.

MacCready wakes to the smell of ash and metal. 

The Gunner camp is stirring awake, predawn light streaking through the sky. Awareness comes to him hazily, like coming up slowly from underwater, and when he stretches in his bedroll he feels his bones snap and creak. Pulling himself up, he rifles through his pack, trying to ignore the static rumble of conversation around him. He doesn’t want to hear the play-by-play from last night, doesn’t want to relive whatever they inflicted on the farm a few miles to the south, doesn’t want to think about their faces twisting into masks of fire and blood, monstrous in the shadows.

He’s the monster now. He knows that. He _knows._ But he doesn’t have to revel in it, doesn’t want to sit across from these people and laugh like it’s all just a game.

MacCready pulls out some strips of dried radstag and chews, pulling on his duster and cap before walking over to the water pump. A group of people call out to him from a campfire, gesturing him over, but he just grunts and keeps moving, ignoring their jeers. 

_You have to keep doing this or you’ll fail him. Fuck your feelings, fuck your morality. You’re all he’s got, poor kid._ MacCready works the pump and splashes cold water on his face. He scrubs viciously, fingernails digging into his skin, takes a shuddering breath and tries really, really hard not to think about the couple he killed two nights ago. _Don’t think about it. Stop it._ Sees their eyes, begging him to spare their child, cringing away from him as he...

Crack of metal against metal, and MacCready yanks himself away from the bad thoughts. _It’s too late,_ he thinks as he walks back to his gear and pulls up his rifle, intent on getting it cleaned before today’s job. _You can’t turn back now._ And yeah, he knows now that home is a lie, at least for him, and the only thing he can do is crawl out of the rain and make something for Duncan, even if it breaks him. Even if Duncan would hate him if he knew what he’d done. Even if he never saw Duncan again. _Face in the dirt, hair for a shirt..._

MaCready finishes off the rest of the radstag and starts to take apart his rifle, cleaning the individual parts. Barnes walks by and gives him a penetrating look, which MacCready studiously ignores. He knows he should be more social, try to get more integrated in the camp, because Barnes is a fucking _master_ when it comes to sussing out the weakest person in the room, and he must know MacCready doesn’t like this. 

Must know that sometimes he can barely breathe, that he has to clench his jaw to keep from screaming, that he tries so fucking hard to stay in control and tight like tripwire and cold as the gun in his hand, because otherwise he’ll slowly bleed to death on the inside, raw like a bruise on his heart.

MacCready closes his eyes, hands moving automatically through the motions of wiping down his rifle, and starts to recount all the caps he has to his name. Subtractions for food, for ammo, and emergencies, what jobs he can count on, what he can steal. The impossible equations that he needs to solve to save his child; the best part of his life, the only part of Lucy he has left, and the thing that will surely kill him in the end. MacCready isn’t afraid of death, not really, because he knows there are worse things to be afraid of, knows that failure is a beast that stalks you no matter where you go, that someday you have to face the consequences of being too ineffective, too _weak_ to do the one fucking thing you need to do. 

_It’ll be enough. It has to be enough._

 

II. 

MacCready shifts the rifle on his back to lay flatter against him and tries not to squirm.

He doesn’t really like being here, the Railroad, and while he’s sure Jules can tell she never asks him not to come. She doesn’t ask him if he _wants_ to come, either, just assumes he’ll be there with her no matter where she goes, trusts that he’ll have her back even if she's going on some pointless, do-gooder, _charity-work_ tear across the Commonwealth. 

It'd be annoying if it didn't feel so damn good. 

Across the room, Jules is sitting with her partner. ‘Deacon’, he knows, and while he doesn’t dislike him exactly, Macready can’t help but feel wary around him. The guy makes all the hairs on his arms stand up, and MacCready isn’t fooled for one minute by that handsome, ‘I’m-just-a-relaxed-jokster’ vibe. _Too slick by half._ MacCready clenches his jaw so hard he knows he’ll have a headache by the end of the day. He hates feeling so out of place, so observed, and being hemmed in and all having these curious eyes on him is making the back of his neck itch. 

“So, what’s the range on that bad boy?” a tall, dark-skinned woman asks him, walking over and leaning against the wall next to him, pointing with her elbow to the rifle on his back. _Man, where does the Railroad find these women,_ MacCready thinks incredulously. _She looks like a comic book war goddess and a spank mag model all rolled into one._

“220 feet” he says, a bit stiffer than he intended. He had the uneasy feeling he was being interrogated, but she didn’t seem bothered by his less-than-friendly tone.

“Hmmm, not bad. I prefer to get in close with Sikanda over there”, she gestures toward a truly vicious-looking minigun resting next to a mattress across the room, with such obvious fondness that MacCready smiles slightly in spite of himself, “but you’re my favorite type of backup. Even if every sniper I’ve ever met is a filthy kill-thief.”

MacCready laughs, already feeling marginally more relaxed. _At least there's one person here who isn’t some sort of face-changing superspy._ Shit-talking fellow fighters he can handle. The woman grins and sticks out her hand, “I’m Glory. You’re that merc I’ve been hearing about, right? Who runs jobs with Fixer?”

“Yep, that’s me. MacCready,” he replies, shaking her hand and moving to lean against the wall next to her, facing Jules and Deacon. Jules is sitting cross-legged on the ground, smiling and talking quietly with Deacon, who’s teetering above her on a battered-looking chair. “Though I guess I’m on your side these days, too.” 

“Well, I’m glad to have you, even if only, you know, tangentially,” Glory says, rolling her shoulders with a pop and crossing her arms. “From what Deacon’s said, you’re a hell of a shot.”

MacCready blinks, taken aback. “ _Deacon_ said? Not Jul--er, Fixer? How the heck does he know that? We haven’t actually worked together.”

Glory raises an eyebrow and snorts, looking amused, “Not that _you_ know about, buddy. Look, Deacon...gets around. It’s kinda his job. There’s hardly a person in the Commonwealth he doesn’t have some sort of intel on, and you’re his partner’s...partner,” she grins, with the barest hint of innuendo in her voice. MacCready chooses to ignore that, and the embarrassing way his stomach does a backflip at her words. “You’re at the top of Deacon’s ‘Let Me Get To Know You’ list.”

“Yeahhhh that is... _truly_ unnerving,” he says, giving a theatrical little shudder.

“Tell me about it,” Glory cracks. “Benefits of being a synth, I guess -- everything I’ve ever done has been with the Railroad, so Deacon can’t dig around and play dress-up with my past.”

 _Wait, she’s…_ MacCready tries to hide his shock, but he knows he's not succeeding. “You're...oh.”

Glory’s expression doesn't change, but her posture stiffens slightly, and he sees the almost imperceptible twitch of her fingers. “Yep. I’m an ‘Oh’.”

“No! No, I didn't mean….sh-crap, I just thought -- you, you don't seem....” He knows he's babbling, but he can’t stop himself.

“Yeah, I get you. No wires sticking out of my neck. No robovoice.” Glory’s still smiling, but MacCready knows he fucked up. He forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down.

“I'm sorry, Glory. Really. I was...surprised, but still. That was crappy of me. Honestly, it doesn't matter. I don't care.”

Glory shrugs good-naturedly, but MacCready can see her gaze start to drift away. _Damnit. Great job, asshole._ He tries one more time.

“I mean, between you and Deacon I just assumed he was the synth,” he says, keeping his voice light and conspiratory. “Jules told me he leaves snack cakes out to get stale before eating them. On _purpose!_ Definitely not human.” He takes a risk and bumps her slightly with his shoulder, apologizing the best way he knows how, and feels a flood of relief when her forced smile melts into a genuine, if reluctant, grin.

A small shriek across the room, and the two of them look up to see Deacon tugging a laughing Jules up by the hand, pulling her close for a half moment, and MacCready grits his teeth against a completely unreasonable surge of irritation at the sight. 

Glory smirks and leans close, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “Synth’s got your girlfriend,” she sing-songs quietly in his ear. He whips his head around, mouth opening to retort, but she just laughs at his expression and elbows him lightly in the ribs.

“See you around, MacCready,” she says, turning to walk away. MacCready snorts in response, secretly loving the echoes of her continued laughter, and thinks maybe this isn't the _worst_ place to be.

 

III. 

“Is this it, Mac?”

They’re standing in the wreckage of Med-Tek Research lab, the stale air and faint smell of decay settling over them. Jules holsters her pistol and keeps her gaze trained to the door, keeping watch while MacCready searches through the room. His hands are trembling as he sifts through the broken equipment and empty cabinets. _It has to be here, it has to be._

He hasn’t ever allowed himself to consider the possibility of not finding the cure. It’s been all that’s kept him alive -- the quest, the mission, to save Duncan, and if he’s come this far only to fail...No. 

And then he sees it, and his heart twists so hard in his chest he can barely breathe.

Shakily, he picks up the vial and holds it up to the light, checking the label to make sure, to make absolute sure. _It is. This is it._ MacCready holds the vial, tiny is his hand, and remembers the last time he felt the sweet, sleepy weight of Duncan in his arms, and for a moment the emptiness inside him feels so vast he has to shut his eyes against the pressure. It hurts, it _hurts._

The lightest touch on his shoulder, and he brings his own hand up blindly to cover hers and grips her so tightly his knuckles go white. _Finally. I’m not gonna let you down, kiddo. It’s gonna be okay._ Jules doesn’t say anything, just lets him get his breathing under control and stands behind him, steady and strong and so damn beautiful it just about breaks his heart all over again.

A few hot tears slide down his cheeks, and he pulls away from her to wipe them away impatiently, pulling his pack around to find the safest place for his precious cargo. 

“Okay. So that’s that,” he says, trying to bring things back onto a more normal place between them. He turns to see her looking at him with such empathy, and _pride,_ and he has to say something now or he never will. “Hey, I - I mean, ‘thank you’ seems completely inadequate for this situation, but…”

She smiles slightly and nods. “I know. I wanted to do it. I wanted to help, if I could.” She starts to reach for him again, but stops halfway, looking unsure. He sees the question in her eyes and answers it, closing the distance between them and wrapping her up in a hug.

She makes a small, squeaky noise of surprise, then hugs him back fiercely, her hands fisting in his coat and nearly knocking his cap off. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in her ear, trying to put as much gratitude as he can in the simple phrase. He knows what she’s not saying -- Shaun’s still missing, saving his kid doesn’t retroactively save hers, and doing this for him is _painful_ even when it feels so good. It’s a parent thing, he thinks. All kids become your kids, when your own is in danger or missing.

They pull apart slowly, almost reluctantly. A corner of her mouth crooks upward, and she reaches out to cup his cheek, and the look in her eyes has him feeling weaker than he cares to admit. _You don’t deserve someone like her._ He wonders, not for the first time, what the hell Lucy would think if she could see him now.

“You know, you and Lucy? You would’ve liked each other, I bet,” MacCready says quietly, thinking of the two of them together. Jules teaching Lucy how to shoot, Lucy teasing Jules while she patches her up after a fight, Duncan a bright light between them all, and all at once he feels a little tired and lot homesick for a future that probably never would’ve happened anyway.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Jules says seriously, no trace of false sympathy or a patronizing smile in her voice. He could love someone who treated Lucy so tenderly, he thinks. He could love someone who has a child of her own, who hacks a life out of this vicious world with her own two hands, who can untangle all the threads of her distorted life and still find a path forward.

As she leads the way out of the lab, him right behind her, he thinks he already does.

 

IV.

The first time Jules kisses him he’s so shocked that he barely moves, thinking for one stuttering moment that he’s having a particularly vivid dream. 

They’re sharing a room at the Dugout Inn after bring Travis and Vadim home, and yeah he knew they’d been kind of flirting for a while and he definitely has a crush, but he never thought...well, he never thought she’d actually want him like _this,_ with her hot mouth on his and shoving him up against the door and his hands automatically reaching for her hips and holding on for dear life.

She pulls back to look at him, eyes dark and pupils blown. “This is okay, right? I’m not way off base here?”

He huffs out a laugh and pulls her back against him, kissing along her jaw and neck, “This is definitely okay. Better than okay.” He feels her throat vibrate under his lips as she makes a small, pleased noise, and before he can really process that this is _real_ she’s yanking his shirt up over his head and pulling him along to the bed in the corner of the room.

MacCready feels almost lightheaded, certain that this is going to be snatched away from him at any second, that she’s gonna snap out of whatever brought this on and realize she’s _miles_ too good for someone like him. 

Jules sits on the edge of the bed and shrugs off her jacket, and he goes to his knees on the floor in front of her, leaning forward for another kiss. _God she tastes so sweet._ One of her hands is flat against his chest, the pads of her fingers moving slightly as if testing the texture of his skin, and the light touch makes him shiver pleasantly. Her other hand is wrapped around the back of neck, holding him in place, and damn if he doesn’t know _just_ what he wants to do for her. 

_I’m gonna make you feel so good._

He reaches up to peel off her pants, pulling her underwear off along the way, until she’s naked from the waist down. MacCready pauses, and looks up to make sure she’s hasn’t changed her mind. _Or come to her senses._ Jules looks a bit startled but pleased, with her lips parted in anticipation and her breath coming in short, quick pants. He has to check, though, has to be sure.

“Do you...I mean, is this okay?” He asks, suddenly a little uncertain. “Can I...can I touch you here?”

She laughs a little, shifting her hips up and breathing out “Christ, yes. This is…yes, this is fucking fantastic, Mac.” He bites back a groan at her words and feels an almost savage grin stretch across his face. 

“Well, okay then”, he says huskily, and the way she shivers in response goes straight to his dick. 

He pushes her thighs apart with a little more force than is strictly necessary, but he can smell how worked up she is and the thought of being so close to her, right where he’s been fantasizing about for months, has him desperate to touch her. 

He scoots her a little closer to the edge of the bed, and when he parts her slit with his tongue, the hot, slippery taste of her has him gripping her thighs even tighter as his erection pulses in his pants. _Jesus, don’t hurt her,_ he thinks as she lets out a shuddering groan. He fights to relax his grip as he licks slowly upward, trying to savor every single thing. The tremor in her thighs, her sweet little gasps, the taste of her against his mouth. _This could be the last time, the only time._

When he swipes his tongue roughly across her clit, she lets out a high-pitched moan so loud he’s sure the people in the bar can hear it, and feels a perverse stab of arousal at the thought. At other people knowing what he was doing to her, how good he could make her feel. Both of her hands are tangled in his hair, trembling with the effort of not just grinding herself against his face. _Like I’d mind if she did._

He moves his hand from her thigh to press lightly against her entrance, loving the jerk of her hips as she cries out and leans back, moving to place her hands flat on the mattress to steady herself.

“Oh! Oh, Mac. God, yes….”

He can’t resist teasing her a little, pushing just his fingertip inside her and waiting, hearing her whine and strain forward, and he’s seized with a greedy, guilty urge for her to say it. To _hear_ how hot she is for it and how bad she wants it.

He pulls his mouth away from her clit, breathing out against her soaking pussy and glancing up at her. Her arms are braced on either side of her, supporting the arch in her back as she tilts herself closer to him, trying to get as much friction as possible.

 _Damn, now that is a pretty picture,_ he thinks, his cock straining in his pants. He spares a quick minute to pull himself free one-handed, stroking himself roughly and rubbing his thumb over the already-leaking head. 

He leans up and over her body to whisper against her ear, arm angled down so his fingers are still slightly penetrating her. 

“Is this good? You still with me, boss?”

“Yes, fuck yes,” she breathes back, voice quavering and ragged. “Don’t stop.” Her hips twitch again, trying to force his fingers deeper, closer to where she wants them, and he presses a quick kiss to the side of her neck before settling back down on his knees in front of her.

Finally, _finally,_ he slides one, then two fingers inside of her slick cunt, crooking up against that spot inside her and he can _feel_ the low, strangled cry vibrating through her as she rolls her hips against him. _That’s it, baby. Show me what you like._ Determined to bring her over the edge like this, MacCready brings his mouth back to her clit, sucking hard, pressing open-mouth kisses against her heated flesh and fucking her with his fingers.

Riding his mouth and his hand, she shudders hard and comes with his name on her lips, and MacCready thinks he could probably die a happy man right here and now.

He thinks it again when, after she’s caught her breath a bit and pulls him up onto the bed with her, she rolls him onto his back and sinks down onto his achingly hard cock with a hungry grin, pressing her hands against his chest for leverage as she fucks him into the mattress.

 

V.

When MacCready walks into the house in Sanctuary he’s been sharing with Jules for the past few months, he's surprised to see Deacon sitting on the couch facing away from the door, hunched over a pile of tattered-looking papers. He takes in Deacon’s bowed head and the slump of his shoulders, and thinks he’s never seen someone who was in such dire need of a break. Which, considering the crew he used to run with, not to mention _Jules,_ Little Miss ‘If I Ever Stop Moving I Will Literally Die’, is freaking saying something.

MacCready is...surprised to find he feels bad for the guy. _They push him way too hard,_ he thinks. _I know he’s good, maybe the best they’ve got, but they’re gonna work him to death if they don’t lay off him once in awhile._

MacCready makes a bit of a production of setting his gear down, not wanting to startle a guy as paranoid as Deacon, but Deacon just half-raises a hand in distracted greeting without turning around, clearly already aware of his presence. _Probably impossible to get the jump on him anyway,_ MacCready thinks grumpily while he thumbs the safety of his rifle and carefully sets it aside. _Freakin’ spies._

“Hey MacCready, you lookin’ for Fixer? She’s out doing target practice with Cait, by the creek,” Deacon says, still not looking up.

“Nah, I'm not getting involved in anything where Cait is pointing a gun near me,” he says, unsettled as always at how Deacon seemed to _always_ know where everyone was at all times.

Deacon hums in agreement, and MacCready walks up behind him and leaning over the couch slightly, hands braced against the rickety frame. 

“Jeez, it's not enough that you risk your life for the Railroad every dang day, but you get homework on top of that?” MacCready says, squinting at the incomprehensible notes in Deacon’s lap. “You picked the wrong line of work, my friend.”

“Aww, thanks Mac. But you know I am the slave of duty,” he laughs, with a cadence that has MacCready racking his brain to try and place it. _A song? A poem, or something?_ On an impulse, just because he looks so damn exhausted, MacCready reaches down to squeeze Deacon’s shoulders with both hands, thinking he’ll leave him alone to his work.

“Jesus Deacon, is your back just 100% knots?” MacCready asks incredulously, pressing his thumbs automatically into Deacon’s shoulderblades and feeling the tension there. “God, I’m getting a headache just _thinking_ about how this must feel.”

Deacon laughs again. “Professional hazard, I guess.” MacCready huffs at that, and makes a quick decision.

“Okay, look. You clearly need a break -- scoot down and I’ll give you a backrub while you read...whatever it is you’re reading.”

Deacon twists around to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? You want to give me...a backrub?”

“Yeah -- I mean, not if you don’t want to,” he backpedals slightly. “But I’m good at it -- I promise it’ll make you feel better, and if you’re out there watching Jules’s back, then you can’t be cramping up in the field. You’ve got my girl’s life in your knotty, effed-up hands.”

Deacon’s still staring at him, though he looks more bemused than anything. _God, it’s almost worth it just to see him look so gobsmacked for once,_ MacCready thinks with a private grin.

“You know what? Okay. Let’s do this," Deacon declares, shoving the papers he was holding to the ground. "I’m gonna get a cozy backrub from a heartless, ex-Gunner mercenary, who kills mostly for caps and occasionally for fun.”

“Darn right you are,” MacCready retorts. “Sit on the floor.”

Deacon lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the floor, and MacCready hops over the back of the couch and settles one leg on either side of Deacon. Placing his palms flat against Deacon’s shoulder blades, he starts to press the heel of his hands hard into the knotted muscles of Deacon’s back.

Almost immediately Deacon’s head falls forward. “Unggggggg. Holy shit, that feels good.”

“Told you,” MacCready replies smugly. “I always deliver.” He starts to press his thumbs in slow, deep circles lower down Deacon’s back, trying not to catch his callouses on the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

“I will never doubt you again. Scouts honor” Deacon mumbles, holding up his three middle fingers in some sort of salute. “Ohhhh yeah. Right there.” He murmurs as MacCready finds a particularly stubborn spot in his right shoulder. “Man, I am really starting to appreciate you in a whole new way, Mac. No wonder Fixer keeps you around.” There’s a teasing edge to his voice, but MacCready can feel Deacon relaxing under his hands, leaning into every touch. MacCready can’t help the flush of pleasure that spreads through his chest, or the dopey grin that dances across his lips, and he deliberately chooses not to think about what either of those things mean. 

Jules walks in, nose buried in her blinking Pip-Boy, and when she glances up and spots them she raises an eyebrow and grins hugely. She hops up on the crumbling kitchen counter on the other end of the room and crosses her legs, peering at them both through her lashes and making a ‘don’t mind me!’ gesture.

“Deacon, are you stealing Mac away from me?”

MacCready rolls his eyes, but Deacon grins back at her and says “Well, if you just leave him lying around unattended like this, someone’s gonna scoop him up when you’re not looking.” Deacon tilts his head back and winks MacCready through the shades that have slipped down onto the bridge of his nose. The change in position brings the back of Deacon’s head directly against the juncture of MacCready’s spread legs, and the image and the slight pressure and the intimate position they’re in feels suddenly _way_ too nice and _fuck,_ what the hell is wrong with him? _This was a dumb idea. Dumb, dumb, dumb._

MacCready can feel an embarrassed flush start at the base of his neck and moves to climb awkwardly away from Deacon, trying to extract himself before he makes a total fool of himself, but Deacon’s hands tighten around MacCready’s calves and hold him still.

“Wait, do you, uh, do you think you could do my neck, too? I know, look what you’ve started, right?” His voice is warm and self-deprecating.

“I...yeah, sure,” MacCready hesitates, and glances up at Jules, but she’s absorbed in her Pip-Boy again, not looking at them. “Anything to help keep the team alive and kicking, right?”

MacCready presses both thumbs into the base of Deacon’s neck and lets his fingers rest lightly on Deacon’s collarbone. He can feel the other man’s slow hiss of breath as he works the knots out.

“Though man, remind me never to offer you anything again,” MacCready says, aiming for stern but ending up closer to petulant. 

“Sorry pal, I'm a known escalator -- give me an inch and I'll take a mile,” Deacon replies with a smirk in his voice.

Mac sees Jules slide off the counter out of the corner of his eye, and before he realizes what’s happening she’s squeezing next to him, sitting slightly sideways so that one leg is thrown over the arm of the couch, the other on the floor next to Deacon, bracing her back and side against MacCready.

“Hi,” she dimples up at him, twisting her head to give him a kiss on the cheek. “This looks like the better place to be.” She settles more fully against him and turns back to her Pip-Boy, and Deacon lets out a blissed-out little hum under his hands, and MacCready’s glad neither of them are facing him because he feels the goofiest, silliest, _stupidest_ smile spread across his face.

_Not the worst place in the world to be, I guess._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for this one - thanks for all the lovely feedback, you beautiful unicorns!
> 
> I'm working on more with these three, because they just REFUSE to leave me alone, but this is it for this vignette-style fics, at least for now.

I. 

“Okay, you have _got_ to teach me how to use that thing, MacCready,” Jules exclaims, practically skipping with adrenaline as the pair of them walked along the cracked street. They’d just come from clearing out the Boston Library, and Jules was feeling better than she had in a long time. They were heading back to Goodneighbor, packs heavy with caps and gear, and so far her and MacCready had proved to be a damn good team. _Finally found someone I can take with me on these sorts of things,_ she thinks, relieved. _Someone who’ll help me without asking too many questions._ “I’m shit at long range, but maybe I can get better.”

MacCready tugs on the brim of his cap, but Jules still catches his grin. “Yeah, sure thing boss. We can do some target practice after we finish up with Daisy. But look, you won’t be able to do your dodge-y, sprint-y thing with a sniper rifle,” he warns. 

Jules shrugs and tilts her face up to the sky, enjoying the warm sunshine on her face. “I can adapt,” she says cheerfully. “Maybe we can take on a whole Raider camp without ever coming out of cover. That’d be handy.”

Chuckling, MacCready hoists his pack higher on his shoulder. “Your enthusiasm for violence and mayhem is heartwarming. But let’s make sure you can hold the gun right before we start planning the Invasion of Normandy.”

“You’re no fun,” she complains, pulling her hair out of the knot on the top of her head and scratching her scalp luxuriously. _Invasion of Normandy, huh?_ “Also, I didn’t exactly have you pegged as a history buff.”

“I have many skills,” MacCready says, smirking, and for a crazy moment Jules wonders if he’s flirting with her.

“I’m starting to see that,” she says before she can stop herself, letting her voice warm a bit. _How old is he, anyway?_ Jules thinks he can’t be more than 23, maybe even a year or two younger than that. Still, that’s younger than her own age of...well, _technically_ she’s pushing 240.

Jules grits her teeth slightly against the now-familiar pounding of blood in her temples, the woozy feeling that comes over her sometimes when she thinks too hard about how much time had been lost to her. It feels like standing on the glass floor of a skyscraper, like balancing on a tightrope above a crevasse. _29\. I’m 29 years old, and my birthday’s right around the corner._

“Good,” MacCready says, bringing her back to reality. “Maybe you can keep me on for a bit longer, then.” Jules wonders if she’s imagining the anxious note in his voice. She gets that, and while she doesn’t want to pry, she has wondered about what it is he’s looking for out here. _He needs the money, that’s for sure. But for what?_

“Don’t you worry,” she says, swinging her pack around to fish out two bottle of water. “As long as you keep shooting like you just did, you’ve got a job with me for as long as you want it.” She gestures to him with one of the water bottles and raises her eyebrows in a question. 

He blinks, looking surprised. “Nah, you don’t have to -” he starts, looking suddenly almost shy, but Jules just rolls her eyes.

“It’s a bottle of water, MacCready, not a marriage proposal,” she says sardonically, tossing it to him before he can refuse again, and she can’t help feeling slightly impressed when he catches it easily. _Quick reflexes and good with his hands,_ she thinks, then shakes her head sharply at herself. _Good Lord, get a grip on yourself._

“Uh, thanks,” MacCready says, his earlier smirk shifting into a small, genuine smile, and Jules smiles back at him. 

“Gotta keep my hired gun healthy, right?” she says, allowing herself a final indulgence of reaching over to clap him on the shoulder, feeling the scratchy fabric of his duster and the play of muscles underneath. It feels good to be walking with someone again, Jules thinks. It feels damn good.

 

II.

As she approaches the nearby raider camp between her and the Railroad checkpoint, Jules thinks the best way to take care of them is to go in fast, hard, and silent. _We can probably split up and take half each, and if we hit ‘em quick enough they won’t have time to react._ She knows without looking that Deacon is right behind her, and when she kneels down in the shadow of some rubble he’s at her side, both of them facing toward the camp.

“I’m thinking we each take half -- a repeat of that junkyard crawling with Gunners, yeah?” Jules whispers. “It’s dark enough that we could get right in there, pop off a few right away.”

“Careful Fixer, I know you’ve got a scope on that pistol -- you sure you want to go in that close?” Deacon’s voice is soft in her ear, tickling the hair around the nape of her neck. He’s so close that she can smell the soap he used to scrub off in the river last night, gravel crunching under his boots as he scans for the best entrance point.

“Trust me, D. I can take ‘em all out before they even know I’m there,” she says archly, reaching down to unhook the flap on her ammo pouch. “You worry about your own raiders.”

Deacon laughs so quietly that Jules feels it against her neck more than hears it. “Alright hotshot. Let’s do this.”

They creep forward, Deacon peeling off to head around the back but always staying in Jules’s line of sight. Her gun feels solid in her hand, and as she lifts it to aim for her first target she can see Deacon mirroring her almost exactly.

Jules gets three of them before they can even react to the shot, and she darts from place to place, keeping them guessing. _Deacon must be having all the fun,_ she thinks with a wild grin as she hears the rapid fire of his laser rifle. _Sounds like there’s at least one Raider here with armor that doesn’t suck._ She starts to head his way, taking out a fourth as she goes.

There’s an ominous click as Deacon’s clip runs out, and as he starts to fumble with his ammo she’s already pulling some out of her own bag for him.

“Hey..” he starts to say, ducking down for cover and turning automatically to her.

“Yeah, I got you -- here,” she says, handing over the ammo. He gives her a secret, conspiratorial smirk and she feels a tug on that electric, almost frightening thread that connects them in moments like this. _We don’t even have to think about it,_ she breathes to herself, and hears the satisfying thud of Deacon’s mark falling dead to the ground. 

But even that little distraction is too much -- Jules realizes too late that there’s another one they both missed, lining up for a shot in the corner of her eye, and as she twists and tries to scramble out of the way she’s certain that the impact of a bullet is split seconds away.

But no, Deacon is somehow a step ahead and nails the guy once in the shoulder, and then again in the head, dropping him. 

“Jesus,” Jules gasps, heart thumping crazily in her chest. “Holy shit. Thank god one of us was paying attention, I guess!” She starts to pick herself up from her undignified sprawl, and Deacon offers her a hand and hauls her upright.

“Nah, you would’ve got ‘em. I’m just showing off,” he says, tilting down his shades and winking at her. They both start picking through the bodies, shaking out pockets for caps or ammo, keeping it quick so they can keep moving for a few more hours.

“Well, you sure know how to make a girl feel special,” Jules teases, still a little short of breath. “Keeping me from getting killed is pretty damn high on my list of turn-ons.”

“Is that so? I’ll make sure to let MacCready know next time I see him,” Deacon says with a wicked smile.

Jules startles slightly, catching Deacon raising his eyebrow at her, and belatedly realizes she should be aiming for casual. “Ha ha, very funny. You are _way_ too interested in who I spend time with off the clock, my friend” she says, but she’s smiling despite herself.

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, doll,” he says, still smirking at her. “Ooo look, Stimpacks! You’re coming with me, big boys.” Deacon reaches down to grab the medicine, and Jules starts to head out again on the dark path through the city.

“You are so weird,” she mutters fondly, hearing him chuckle quietly behind her as he matches his pace with hers.

 

III.

Everything in the Institute is hard to get used to after so much time in the Commonwealth, Jules thinks. The lights are too bright, the floors too slippery and smooth, the constant whirring and beeping of the tech create a buzzing, crackling blanket of white noise, and everyone is so sparklingly clean that she feels filthy down to her very marrow. 

But the hardest thing is how, out of nowhere, Shaun will do or say something _exactly_ like Nate used to, and it’s so surreal and bittersweet that she feels lightheaded.

Shaun’s talking to her now, explaining some feature of the Biotech department, and Jules is trying to listen, trying to retain as much as she can for her report to Des when she gets back to HQ, trying to keep her fucking wits about her and stick to the _mission_ , but all she’s seeing is the peculiar, deeply familiar way Shaun is tapping his pen against his clipboard, and she can’t focus on anything else. 

It used to drive her crazy when she first started dating Nate, the way he’d tap whatever he was holding against the nearest flat surface, seemingly without ever realizing he was doing it. She wouldn’t even have to ask him to stop, just raise her eyebrow at him and he’d jerk his hand a little and grin at her with that twist of his mouth that she knew as intimately as her own reflection. And now here was Shaun, her child, _Nate’s_ child, with those same dark brown eyes and stubborn chin, tapping away, and Jules has to concentrate hard on her breathing to suppress the sob that’s suddenly clawing at her throat. 

There’s an endless, impassable gulf between the three of them now, and it’s easier when she can keep all of them separate in her head. Seeing Shaun, feeling that shadow-pressure of Nate’s arms around her when she held their baby for the first time...it’s too much. She remembers daydreaming about what Shaun’s life would be, remembers his sweet little hands waving in the air, and hates herself a little for the horror she brought him into. _I’ve failed him. I’ve failed everyone._

Shaun glances over at her, and she must look at least half as terrible as she feels, because he stops his explanation and reaches out to gently touch her arm.

“Are you alright, Mother? You look pale,” he says, brows knitting together.

“I- I’m fine,” she stutters, and abruptly she can _hear_ Deacon’s voice in her head, clear and low and steady. _A little well-placed vulnerability can get you farther than violence or intimidation, partner. Use whatever you’ve got on hand. Use anything._ “I...you remind me of your father, sometimes,” she says faintly. “He used to tap his pen, like you do. It’s just. It’s...a little strange, that’s all.” 

Shaun nods and his eyes soften the tiniest bit, and Jules send another silent, fervent prayer of _Thank You_ to Deacon. He always told her she was a natural at this bluffing, spying business, but she’s certain she’d’ve been killed long ago if not for his direction and tutoring. Thinking about him makes her stomach twist with guilt, for keeping Shaun a secret from him, and she tries to shake it off.

_I can’t tell Deacon,_ she thinks as Shaun orders someone to bring her a glass of water, urging her to sit in a nearby chair. She’s certain Deacon would pull her out of the field. He trusts her to do this now, but if he knew the truth he’d send someone else, thinking surely she’d be compromised. _Maybe you are._ Besides, being the sole focus of Deacon’s laser-like attention is uncomfortable and thrilling enough already -- add this gut-punch to the list and the pressure around them would be unbearable. _It has to be me that...that ends this, with Shaun. It has to be me. I owe him that._

And anyway, she tells herself firmly, this one thing is about _her._ Her family, her kid, and the rest of this ruined world can just give her a fucking minute.

_I can’t tell Mac, either._ She won’t tell him she’s going to murder her own child. _He might ask me to save him, no matter the cost._ And, if she’s being completely honest with herself, she wants him to...love her. Jules sips at the water offered to her and tries to ignore the white hot burn of shame licking up face at the thought. _God you are pathetic. Lying to him so you can keep someone who gives a damn about you._ She knows what she has to do, but it’s _hard,_ and having to see the look on Mac’s face...she can’t. She just _can’t._ He would only get in her way, make her doubt herself, and she needs all her conviction for this. She needs to play to win.

Because Jules knows about grief, about how it twists and morphs into a thousand different shapes, into whatever knife slips easiest between your ribs and poisons your blood. She knows grief calcifies your bones and weighs you down, so heavy all you can do is sink beneath the dark waves, and right now she’s just barely treading water. Right now she’s just trying to stay alive and whole enough to do this one thing. 

Shaun’s still gazing at her with such concern, such tenderness, and she lets him guide her back to her quarters for a rest. Jules needs to get back to HQ soon, thinks staying much longer will risk exposure, but she can’t help placing her hand on her son’s, and the smile on his face cracks her clean in two.

She looks at him, and loves him, and knows she’ll have to kill him in the end.

 

IV.

“So then I said, ‘Well, if you fellas can’t come to some sort of agreement, then you can always just buy the rest from me!’” Hancock finishes, with a little flourish of his hand for dramatic effect. 

Cait and Jules giggle in tandem, stretched out next to each other on the couch in Hancock’s office, the table in front of them littered with plastic Jet containers, vials of Med-X, and crumpled Mentats cartons. The air in the room is smoky and heavy, and Jules shivers as the second hit of Med-X smashes into her bloodstream with a vengeance and she just _breathes_ out in one long exhale, for what feels like the first time in days. In months. _This isn’t real,_ she thinks to herself. _This can’t be real._

Hancock drops gracefully back into the couch across from her and gives her a knowing look. “That’s it, sister. Time for a break.” Jules smiles lazily at him, and at Cait, and Cait’s hand stretches over to hers and she strokes the back of Jules’s hand with her thumb, so lightly and swiftly Jules can’t process it til it’s over and Cait’s resettled deeper in the cushions.

“So Mr. Mayor,” Cait says, words slurring slightly. “Is life too boring now that you’re out of the criminal underworld? I can try to shake up some more side work for you, you know. As a personal favor for a close friend.”

“Nah, I can’t complain -- I got the two prettiest, most terrifying ladies in the Commonwealth with me right now, both of ‘em high as kites” he grins, just as Fahrenheit leans against the doorframe for a check-in. “Life doesn’t get more interesting than that.”

Fahrenheit rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks,” she says dryly, but by now Jules can read the exasperated affection in her eyes. _This is all a mistake. None of this should be here._

Cait looks up at Fahrenheit with hooded eyes, her pupils blown. “Don’t you listen to him, luv. You’re the best-looking thing in this room, as far as I’m concerned,” she purrs, with such obvious interest that Fahrenheit looks a little flustered and taken aback. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. It’s fine,” she says shortly, averting her eyes and fumbling with the straps on her arm guard, her lips twitching upward slightly.

“You ever get tired of this fella not treatin’ you right, you come find ol’ Cait. She’ll make you feel all better,” Cait says, voice low and seductive.

Fahrenheit actually _blushes,_ and as Hancock laughs helplessly as she mutters, “Um, yeah. Maybe. I mean, not right _now,_ but...yeah. Okay...I gotta go.” And as she turns on her heel and speed-walks out of the room, Cait gives a long wolf whistle at her retreating back. 

“Would you please lay off my right hand woman, you incorrigible harpy?” Hancock says, flicking a crumpled ball of paper at Cait. “She’s not exactly used to people making the first move.” Cait bats the projectile away easily and shrugs cutely at Hancock, looking utterly unrepentant. 

“None of this is real,” Jules murmurs, feeling the room slowly expand outward. _This is a dream, the most vivid dream I’ve ever had. I’m going to wake up any minute now._

Even through the haze in the air Jules sees Cait and Hancock exchange a look, and Cait nudges her gently with her elbow. “Hey now. Not this again, darlin’.”

“Yeah, Jay. I promise, we’re as real as you are,” Hancock says quietly, leaning forward and staring at her intently. “You’ve been here before, remember? You’re in my office, with Cait, in Goodneighbor. Left your man and the rest of the crew at home, and you’re taking some well-earned time off with us.” Jules feels like she’s falling into his fathomless black eyes, struggling for purchase against the slippery walls of her mind.

Cait reaches out to touch her again, sliding her hand across Jules’s shoulders. “C’mon now, sweetheart. You just relax here with us -- we’ll take care of ya. You don’t have to think about anything else right now.” Cait’s red hair is a flaming halo around her face, beautiful in the dim light. _I know them._

“I...yeah. I know you,” Jules says, coming back to herself a bit and shaking her head slightly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hancock says firmly, looking relieved and leaning back again now that Jules seemed more aware of her surroundings. “This is why you come here, right?”

Jules frowns slightly at that. “No. I mean, yeah, but. I like you. Both of you. The others...they don’t really…”

“Fuck ‘em,” Cait says shortly, propping her legs up on the table. “Holier-than-thou assholes. Look, I don’t know what you’re dealing with, when you’re out there doing God knows what, but it’s plain as day that you _need this._ If they can’t see that, or if they don’t _care?_ Then they can fuck right off.”

Hancock raises a torn box of Mentats to Cait in salute. “Amen to that, sister,” he says, popping another cherry-red disc into his mouth. “A-fucking-men.”

Jules nods carefully and smiles again at both of them and feels another slow, sweet pulse of Med-X roll through her. _Real. This is real. You’re not going to wake up._

 

V.

The moon is rising steadily in the sky when Jules walks away from Sanctuary, heading to the woods between here and Vault 111. _The night before the big battle,_ she thinks, snorting with disbelief at how sharply her life veered off course. Jules hikes up the hill and finds a vantage point with a good view of the Commonwealth below. The night sky is clear and beautiful, bathing the shattered landscape in a silvery glow. 

She reaches up to pluck a leaf off a low-hanging branch, rubbing her thumb against the grainy texture and taking a deep breath. It rained a few hours ago, and the lingering smell of lightning and ozone still clings to the ground.

“Hey, Jules? You out here?” MacCready calls out softly from beyond the trees. It’s mostly rhetorical -- she’s sure he knows where she is. _Have to get up pretty early to sneak past Mac,_ she thinks with a rueful smile. He’s asking if he’s welcome, or if she wants to be alone.

“Here,” she calls back, turning toward the sound of his voice. He threads his way through the trees, blurry and unknown, and for a moment he could almost be Nate walking toward her again. She wonders how often he sees Lucy in her, in the movements of her body when they’re together, in the gentle touches they share. _All these ghosts between us,_ she thinks, a sharp ache in her chest. _All the lost and missing children._

He comes to stand next to her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants, sliding his eyes sideways in her direction. “Everything okay, boss? You good?” The old title seems to slide past his lips unnoticed, and she smiles a little to hear it again.

“Yeah. No problems, just thinking about tomorrow. Going through everything one more time,” she says. She sees him shift slightly, and can guess what he’s about to say. 

“I should be going with you, Jules” he says, obviously fighting to keep his voice neutral. “You need backup down there.”

“And I’ll have it. I’ve got the whole Railroad coming with me,” she says calmly, both of them still not looking directly at each other and standing slightly apart. “I don’t want them knowing about you. If we don’t...if something goes wrong and they think you’re involved, the Institute will go straight for Duncan. They’ll use it against us. Against you.”

He makes a low, frustrated sound and kicks at a rock on the ground, and for a moment Jules is gripped with such overwhelming affection for him she has to clench her hands into fists against the surge of emotion. _Scary, dangerous mercenary, scuffing his shoes in the dirt like a little kid,_ she thinks, eyes stinging slightly with the _love_ she feels in that moment. If she had to choose one thing about him that she was most drawn to, it’d be his contradictions. Boyish good looks hiding a staggering kill count, gritty pragmatism uncomfortably wedded with deep loyalty and fatherhood. Snarky sarcasm melting deliciously into shameless need in bed. _I can’t lose you too, you idiot._

MacCready turns to her and sighs deeply, and Jules thinks he’s just too damn tired to fight. “Well, you just make sure Deacon stays focused on keeping you alive. If he gets you killed over saving some synth, I will personally put a bullet in his pretty little head,” he says with a strained, forced smile.

“Aww, you’re sweet,” she says, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be sure to pass along the message.”

Relaxing a bit, MacCready holds on to her hand for another moment before letting go. “I mean, based on how hard he stares at _certain_ parts of you when he thinks you’re not looking? Maybe I don’t need to worry that much about him bring you back,” he says, raising his eyebrow and grinning at her.

She laughs. “Me? Oh Mac, you should hear what he says about _you._ ‘Man, is there anything MacCready can’t hit? I bet those hands feel amazing on your…back’” she imitates Deacon’s husky drawl, and is delighted and more than a little intrigued to see Mac’s breath hitch slightly and blush brightly in the dark. _Yeah, we’re definitely filing that away for further consideration. Assuming we don’t all die tomorrow._

“Good thing we didn’t wipe them out, then,” he retorts, clearly trying to get her off the topic of Deacon’s smoky voice. “Apparently I’ve got quite the fan.” 

Jules's grin fades, and she turns away to look back at the valley, feeling the cool, damp breeze whisper across her face. Soft crunch of Mac’s footsteps behind her as he snakes his arms around her waist, holding her loosely against his chest and breathing into her hair. They stand quietly for a while, and Jules remembers kneeling in this exact spot a year and half ago, when she crawled out of the tomb of Vault 111 into a world she barely recognized.

_We destroyed it all, and left our children the smoking remains._

“Would you have killed everyone in the Railroad, if I’d asked you to?” her voice is steady and soft. “Des, and Deacon, and everyone?” She doesn’t move, doesn’t twist to see his face. The stars are so bright in the night sky. _All that dead light still shining down on us._

Mac shifts closer to her, his beard scratching slightly against her cheek as he rests his chin lightly on her shoulder. He’s silent for a long moment, and in the stillness she can feel the steady, slow beat of his heart.

“Yeah. I would have,” he says quietly, tucking a kiss into the side of her neck, and suddenly her throat feels so tight and raw she can barely breathe. _Mine,_ she thinks savagely, and wraps her arms over his, gripping him with shaking hands. She leans into him and squeezes her eyes shut. _Mine, mine, all mine._

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to get back in the swing of writing smut again after a 10 year break, and then this happened.
> 
> Not beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. CC completely and utterly welcome - it's been a loooong time since I've written anything.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr and I don't know how to use it, because I am old! But feel free to visit me here and watch me stumble around: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tinwomanrunaway


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